Rendezvous
by bacon-fatality
Summary: She lives for such moments with him; she is his favourite toy.
1. Zero Gravity

**An idea borne of a single flash of inspiration.  
** **Writing style differs to suit this story's needs.**

 **A series of one-shots, mini-stories and whatnot.  
Requests will be reviewed, but not necessarily granted.**

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 _Rendezvous  
_ by bacon-fatality

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 _Click-clock_.

 _Click_. _  
Clock_.

The sound of her steps echo down the hallway. Silent as death, sharp as teeth.

A brief glance at the senior psychiatrist.

Flats. Black _boring_ ones, at that.

That would explain the stillness.

White, white everywhere. Sterilised walls, the smell of bleach and chemicals with the occasional splash of colour. A prison in Wonderland.

In the distance, the Jabberwocky calls.

 _Click_.

" _Dr_ Quinzel," lips smeared with pinkish muck form the words. Beady eyes - wrinkles caused by age and stress - flash.

The underlying contempt for Arkham Asylum's newest psychiatrist does not go unnoticed.

They make a sharp turn.

 _Clock._

Men dressed in blue and black wielding batons and revolvers appear at the end. Only one cell are they guarding so intently. Their heads lift. They greet with lifeless stares, but a gleam within shines. Only the unfeeling have the merit to guard those who seek to twist the matters of the heart. Of course - the cells are soundproof, but _that_ has no consequence, does it?

"You _are_ aware of the risks you are undertaking, yes? The man is a dangerous psychopath, sociopath, whatever he is. Many names and titles surround this one." Another contemptuous look, and she exhales. Her steps quicken, her breathing deepens. None are immune to what lies beyond.

"He will try to manipulate you, earn your sympathy," she continued on, straightening, being the expert and authoritative figure she _claims_ to be. The well-trained persona she adopts and portrays herself to be. Lies, they are. False words, false banner she hails under. "We have arrived. Be wary, _Doctor_."

A small smile is given. Iciness swirls in the reflection of her gloss. A fraud to the very end.

Harleen Quinzel turns, and she flashes a bright, _sincere_ smile.

"I will handle it. I am built for it, after all - the abuse."

The bitch stills, but only for a moment. A single nod, and off she goes, back down the rabbit hole.

Far away, the Army of Cards blow their trumpets. It has begun.

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...

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" _I live with these moments with you_."

She gives a short, nervous laugh. Tucks a strand of golden wheat behind the crook of her ear. She pulls back in a brief lapse of consciousness, and places a hand beneath her white coat. It symbolises her occupation, her identity, her state of mind. A fabric of righteousness. She had nearly lost herself, there. Careful, now, she tells herself.

Her heart picks up the pace when they lock eyes. Emerald clashes with baby blue. Her breath hitches, though she is certain she is not heard. Does _he_ even know of the effect he has on her? The thin thread of control he has over her? She does not admit it, not even to herself.

It would be _so unprofessional_.

He studies her akin to a predator scrutinising its prey. Intoxicating, she thinks, she feels. She basks in it all. In a sudden, _insane_ moment of bravery, stupidity, she in turn looks at _him_ \- The Clown Prince, the _Joker_. Terror of Gotham, the background voices whisper. Everything about him intrigues her; an inexplicable pull.

Yet, to her, he is merely _him_. No word can and will ever describe what she feels. A sharp spear of pain and anger stabs through her - why does nobody _see_? They do not _realise_ the true identity of the city's _supposedly_ infamous criminal! Why, is he not _harmless as a mice_? So lovable he is! Her _Mister. J_...

 _She_ would know - she has even brought a stuffed kitten at his request!

She _feels_ for him, she _feels him_ \- she is the only one that _empathises_.

No one else.

None.

He is alone.

 _They_ are alone.

In a single frame, she is now leaning across the single desk. The only obstacle separating their bodies and lips. For a split second, she is almost sure _he_ had brought himself closer, as well.

"—an itty, _itty_ , _bitty_ favour," he breathes, creeping nearer, nearer to her. To the lock. He has the key. She knows that now. _Sees_ that now.

 _For him_.

In that junction, with her gazing at him, him gazing at her, nothing else mattered. She is lost in those irises indefinitely, for all of infinity. At the low growl upon their declining distance, she thinks of how she has always adored his voice and antics during previous sessions - the shivers are uncontrollable.

 _Love._

 _Mad_ , _mad love_.

Was it possible for a doctor to fall for her own patient?

 _I_ live _with these moments with_ you _._

Something snaps, and the edges of her lips lift by the teeniest bit.

His own orbs narrow, and as though aware and _pleased_ , he trails one pale finger down, outlining her jaw. It almost seems to be her award for being a good, obedient girl. Was this what she would receive, should she do as he requested?

"A machine gun? I can do that."

.

...

.

"Would you die for me?"

She pauses, and stares up into him. He is cold, unblinking and calculative, but in his tone there is a maniacal note. Such a drastic change it is - his demeanour, countenance, all now reflect his true nature. _Psycho_ , _psycho_ , _psycho_. Baddie, baddie, baddie.

It was new, but _oh_ , did it fit him. He is dressed in clothes fit for a king. The colour of royalty.

Gotham's _true_ King.

What was the _great_ Batman compared to _such_ majesty? _Nothing_. A sliver of pride wriggles into her heart, before burrowing deep. As proposed, he had given a spectacular show. Fireworks, flames, the cheers of the crowd... such ecstasy she had felt. He had promised, and he had delivered.

The panda had been adorable, too. A fine touch, if she has to admit.

"Yes," she says, not missing a heartbeat.

She means it.

 _Every_.

 _Single_.

 _Word_.

"No... that's _too easy_...  
— would you _live_ for me?"

 _I live with these moments with you._

" _Hm_?" he prompts, tilting his head to the side. A test.

For a very brief while, she gets angry. She has gone through _heaven_ \- gone through _paradiso_ \- for him. Has she not proven her worth and loyalty? Even now, she feels the straps weighing now. It had been _electrifying_ , _euphoric_ , _beautiful_. Many knew not what the Joker experienced - but she had been granted by such grace to be allowed to have a taste of it. _Special_ , he had called her.

"Yes."

She wants to stay with him, to _be_ with him. He has her hanging from the ceiling, drunk on the feeling.  
Ah, how she _loves_!

If this is the price she has to pay, it pales in comparison to the prospects of a future with him.

 _What, ya gonna kill me, Mistah. J?  
No. Consider this a token of appreciation, my dear._

He dances around in a dark waltz. It asphyxiates her. It leaves her breathless. He speaks, but she is focussed elsewhere. He had let her off, not left her for dead, to have metal embedded in her flesh, _dripingdripdrip_ , to become something _more_ by _his side_. He wants her, as bad as she wants - _needs_ \- him... and that is enough.

This is the final stage, the crescendo to the peak of the mountain - before the plunge.

As she falls through zero gravity, she reflects.

Was she insane? Has she always been insane?

 _No_ , just for him, _only him_ , the voices say, and she agrees.

When her head hits the surface, and when the pain shoots through her, with fire nibbling at her heels, her ears, her neck... she has already made up her mind, and her mind has been made up for her. She leaves behind her restraints, the remnants of her earthly shackles.

 _Free_.

Darkness surrounds - she loses herself to the abyss with hope, detemination - all things sweet with candy corn and sugar fluff.

When she awakens, cocooned in safety, she smiles.

 _She is reborn_.

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	2. Ricochet

**I appreciate all the support received.** **  
 **I can only hope I will do the characters justice.****

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The atmosphere is pulsing, beating, _alive_. The ambience dark and electrifying. In the background, music blares from large, vibrating speakers. The throng of criminals - petty and renowned alike - mingle about, exchanging sly looks and conniving smiles.

Many know this to be a favourite hangout of Gotham's Clown Prince, and even fewer are aware of just who runs the place. They all think themselves brave, fearless, _stupid_ , to dare to step in the same air as the Joker. Big-shots they are now, and only the smartest know better than to stand on a self-built pedestal of gold. People die here, and here are they reborn. Of course, at times, they _stay_ dead.

Here is where business is made, deals struck, cards played. All things naughty, bad, secretive. Away from the prying eyes of the public, from the authorities, from the city's pesky, _pesky little_ vigilante. This is where sinners go, and where sinners dwell - mice in a trap.

A hush falls upon them when _she_ steps up, up onto the steps, up onto her throne. Her scent curl up in tendrils into their noses, her crown of golden ray cascades down her back, where white porcelain act as her epidermis. Sultry outfits she always don, and perfection is her forte. Cold blue eyes scan the lines, though never resting on anyone - only above, _always_ above.

The sensible hold their breaths, and take caution to pry their gaze away swift; away from her, safe from _him_. The ignorant gawk, inhale, lust. To them, she is merely another frequent patron of this snazzy location, where people get drunk, high, before like _ashesashes_ , they all fall down. Of course, to have a spot dedicated specially to her, she _must_ be a patron of great honour, they think in awe... or just a cheap but talented whore.

They do not indulge in the knowledge - perhaps it is best they remain in darkness. It would spoil the fun, after all, and clubs were all about fun. Unbeknownst to their fragile minds, the area is a ticking time-bomb, and she is the trigger. She is merely one of the dancers - the best one there is to be had, too - and someone seemingly ideal to have a good ol' tumble in the hay. They do not smell the crazy on her, the danger she brings in at her heels.

 _I'd love to rub that, darling_ , whistles one. A bald, corpulent man he is. Nothing but a measly cocaine-trafficker.

Instantly, winces are heard, but he pays them no heed. His desire outweighs all senses. He waggles one thick, short finger as a notion for attention. She turns, and graciously grants him a pearl-white smile. Eyelashes are bat, and off she goes, towards the metal chain swinging from the top, awaiting her to begin the dance of death. He does not catch the scheming in her irises, and greedily soaks in the view like a thick slab of sponge.

 _Poor, poor, sad sod_ , the educated whisper, already scrambling from their seats to the exit.

 _Tick-tock._ _  
_Tick.  
Tock.

 _Tick_ —

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...

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Far, far up in the havens of sparklingsparkly things, he watches from his cosy little alcove, exuberantly furnished to his personal tastes. Always present, always seeing. He is omnipotent, omniscient - he is Gotham's greatest salvation. He is chaos. He is order. He is anarchy. This is _his_ abode, _his_ territory, _his_ realm. The universe is of his own creation, he is—

Ah, what is this? A fly has been caught in the spider's web!

He grins widely in anticipation, a smile from ear-to-ear, and leans forward. His grip on the handle of his cane tightens, and his piercing gaze prowls before resting on the bulky mass carelessly ambling around the premises of the stage. Predator on prey. _Easy_ , _easy catch of the day._

 _What shall be today's signature dish?  
Why, clam chowder with a sprinkle of red, dash of joy and garnish of a meat topping of your choice! All made with lo-ve!_

As the trudging mass persists in closing the distance between her and himself, the King of Gotham feels an unprecedented prickle of annoyance. _Naughty_ , _naughty_ , _naughty_ _boy_. Seeking to claim his most prized possession for his own? _Tsktsktsk_. Someone has not taught him the rules, then. No matter, no matter - he shall be patient... he shall count to ten! Any longer and _bangbangbang_ \- they would have a winner!

The prize? _Pretty pretty_ red roses with intricate patterns, dripping _splash_ drop onto mommy's hand-washed carpet with red bits of pollen.

As he interweaves his fingers and views the spectacular show of flexibility, agility and pure seduction, she so happens to lock eyes, and instantly, her features light up, and she blows a kiss. _Puddin'_ , she mouths, before erupting into paroxysms of giggles. He stares in silent commentary, and soon, his vision turns red as the _fatfaticecreamboy_ screams for more _more_ moreicecream _please_!

 _Too much ice-cream's gonna get 'cha hurt_. Stuffstuff yourself till the balloon goes _pop_! and whoosh - fireworks everywhere!

He jerks, and snarls into the air. _His_ creation - and his most special one as of yet. He did not do all that _hocuspocus_ shock therapy magic trick for nothing. He did not push her into that vat of bubbling acid for her to come grovelling to him as his perfect little, _annoying_ doll to be in vain. He has _moulded_ her - _he_ has _created_ her into who she is now. She is _his_. _His_ toy. _His_ possession.

 _Was he jealous_?

The _horror_! No no, he is merely being territorial. What _was_ emotion, but exhilaration from playing with good friend Bats?

Being defensive _is_ a guy thing, after all, as an once-promising therapist had said to him before. He is merely staking his claim over what belongs to him - and she just so happens to exist as one of them. _She is such an amusing little thing_ , truly. A wonderfully-played, novel game for him to delight in.

It had been deliciously simple to bend her, to make a joke out of nothing.

Head tilts, lip purses. Yet, what a curious little minx she is, but how _infuriating_ she can be! What she ostensibly stirs in him is enough to make him—

Had he had already sent her off on a rocket? _Aw_ , _party-pooper._

How about kicking her off a building? _Rats_!

He shakes his thoughts off. _He_ is in control - why does he let such trivial things bother him, especially when the goings in Gotham's getting good? They topple balance and _oh_ , was he not going to let it occur again! _Wicked vixen_ , she will have to be dealt with later for causing such unnecessary turbulence. A teensy, teeny-weeny pinch of bleach, perhaps...

The little bit resemblance of a beat in that shriveled old pound of flesh is disregarded, as always, and within a few seconds - he is back, in authority, and badder than ever. What matters now is not dwelling on nonexistent, frivolous feelings or unicorn rainbows, but to defend what is claimed property.

A silencer can be _so_ disrupting - it made the environment all too very _dull_. Where would the adrenaline be in a world of dreadful, dreadful silence?

 _Nighty_ - _night_.

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	3. Countdown (I)

**Updates will be infrequent due to upcoming examinations.  
** ** **Once again, thank you for all the encouragement.****

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" _You will not take him_?" the one dubbed Fat Bird demands an answer. Her white feathers are ruffled, now. She brings one claw down upon the desk, and the delightful sound of collision reverberates around the nest. _Squawk-squawk-squawk_ she goes, beak sharp yet dented.

Guy Peacock shakes his head obstinately. He lifts his chin, and throws a defiant look about the gawking flock of pigeons, squab and all types of fluffily-winged fauna. He spreads his acrylic-painted wings proudly, basking in gazes of the mute, enjoying just how of a _bad, b_ _ad, bad_ rebel he is.

"I will not," he inserts smugly. "A man of _my_ calibre would not, at least. See—" Here, he preens, and puffs out his skinny, beaten chest that has gone through eight broken ribs served with a punctured lung for being a sa _d_ _lonely_ pathetic mommy's boy and tiresome smart-mouth in high school.

"I have travelled abroad to Africa, where tribal cannibals live and where some do not consume for rituals, but for their own sick pleasure. I have stayed in the rural forests of the Amazon, and have witnessed family and friends turn upon one another over _nothing_.

"I have gone to places none of you ever have ever set _eyes_ upon - I _know_ what the world holds, and I _know_ its inner core of crazy. I've _been_ there." At this oh-so-powerful junction of his God-sent-oratorical skills, he pauses, inhales, and nods at the awestruck, pleased at the stars twinkling above their half-empty hemispheres for a head.

He then breathes, slowly articulating the words, tongue rolling off every syllable,  
"— _and_ _the Joker is not one of them_."

He steps back, takes a theatrical bow, and proceeds to smile patronisingly at the gobsmacked ball of fluff in a doctor's coat. Yet, even before the full impact of his words sinks in, a wing goes upupup into the sky.

"You do not understand what it is that you are insinuating," a meek, wavering voice squeaks. All eyes on the prize, and instantly he ducks back into the burrow. "The— The Joker is crazy… _crazy_ , I tell you!"

 _Aren't they all_? one sneers from the back.

He fidgets, constantly on the edge, rigid and tense. Darting, darting, darting like a garter snake. "One tiny thing that displeases him," eyelids stretched wide, finger-gun aimed at his temple. "— _bang_!" Fingers jerk, and he places them away.

"You seem _awfully_ paranoid," Guy Peacock sneers. "What, baby's got a little _boo_ - _boo_? What did Ol' Clownie do to _you_ , _Dr_ Marten?" he snorts. "Did he grab your hair and yank it at a _good angle_ to show you his _toys_? Whisper _soft_ , _threatening_ , _sweet-nothings_ into those hot, red ears? He must know your hobbies _very_ well. Who became the doctor, and who the patient? Dominance can be _so fluid_."

"Enough of this rabble, Dr Reun!" Fat Bird snaps, baked and fizzling. "Patients such as _him_ are placed in strait jackets, if you will recall. If you will not accept the offer, you stand to lose a valuable addition to those _papers_ of yours. No? Very well." She clears her throat, cooling the steam off charred flesh. Almost, just almost, one can almost _smell_ the aroma.

There aren't many left for the slot, she realises. Majority of their senior psychiatrists have gone off to a newer, _less intense_ asylum to assist the poor, damaged souls there. The ones who still remain are all busy 'round the clock.

Only leaves the newer, untamed ones, then – fresh meat. Dr Reun - she purses her lips - a new employee, but very much experienced. Just recently has he been transferred over to Arkham, but as rumoured, too stuck up his own rear. Dr Marten had had his chance, had failed miserably, and had perhaps even had his sanity screws loosened.

Another weight is added onto her back, and she waddles about with the extra mass to survey the white-washed room.

A head of blonde-white hitches a ride on the train, and Old Betty smiles.

The family's youngest child.

The _famous_ Harleen Quinzel.

The hot topic of all the background chatter! The genius of most recent times!

Perhaps it is the bitterness of such young, early success of a promising career; the envy that she had been lacking at _her_ age...

—or merely because she became a green-eyed beast on how the others all appeared to be constantly whispering of her academic achievements and, " _Have you heard how she makes such delightful risotto_? _Don't forget the savoury prosciutto_!", but a flash of inspiration stabs her, and cold, icy, malicious sadism sinks in.

"Dr Quinzel?" she coos.

.

...

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She straightens her white coat - her medal signifying grand professionalism, top authority, and plain _style_ - _stylish_ - _styling_. She looks at her twin - doubtful, nervous, anxious. Looking good? _Looking good_ , it whispers back reassuringly. Something is lacking, however... something about her face. Was it her hair?

Ooh! Her reflection grins from ear to ear - _prescription glasses_! Those would _really_ make your eyes just _pop_.

 _Like when you grab someone by their throat_ —

She nods in silent acquiescence, and goes to her Pandora's Box to retrieve a fetching pair. It's filled with little knick-knacks; each with their own little backstory and characters. Sometimes, she picks them up to play Dollhouse.

 _How about now_? she asks, and she receives a bop of the head in turn. Who keeps such redundant paraphernalia under one's work-desk, anyway? _You vain, vain bitch_. _Few weeks in and still without a patient of your own_ \- _whom you trying to impress_ , _hm_?

The all-too-familiar clicking of heels echo down the hallway adjacent to the office. She wrinkles her nose in distaste - the doctors here are all so _boring_. Workworkwork is their mantra. They trip over blocks of black-lined blocks because of that. Of course, there isn't any harm with a little work. She enjoys it too. Sometimes. However, she too knows how to have _fun_. Batting balls is one of her _favourite_ pastime activities.

"Dr Quinzel?" someone with a cool, deep voice calls.

Her head snaps up, and reflexively - though against _her_ reflexes - she gets up. In front stands the solemn statue Joanne Leland, carved by the famous sculptors Ronald Leland and Linda Leland (née Williams).

Pixie cut, soulless stare and other little attributes of a bland, boring _boorish_ person. _Oh_ , _don't forget to throw in those hideous pearl earrings_.

The cold, cold lady gives her a brief once-over, before nodding once, as though approving of some unspoken criteria. The cat pops its head out of the bag, curious. _Breathe_ , Blondie inhales whilst forcing a bright grin. The butterflies are really growing cray-cray, in there!

"I am Dr Leland, and I have been assigned to _formally_ introduce you to Arkham Asylum. We apologise for not having had the time to do so, till now. Afterwards, we will head over to the conference room; the head psychiatrist wishes to gather everyone for a meeting."

J _ust get on with it, already!_

Leland pauses, before presenting a clinical smile and a firm shake of the hand. "Come along, please."

As they stride down the empty hallways, drums can be heard from certain studios, with their bands' lead singers singing their hearts out. Some of them sound melodious, whilst the rest just croak. It hurts the ears, if she is to be blunt.

Pity. Some really _do_ deserve an audience for executing such a sugar-rich performance.

"Pardon me for asking, but why have you decided to intern over at Arkham?" Alas, the inevitable simple, banal exchange has begun. "There are many other institutions in Gotham better than _this_ non compos mentis edifice."

"I have always been attracted to extreme personalities," she replies smoothly, deciding to be nice and to wave off the subliminal message. "They're more exciting, more interesting." She is being honest - she _does_ love a good challenge. "I find it intriguing and fascinating to be able to see through the world through them - to be in _their_ mind.

"They are deemed insane and unstable - but truly, what exactly _defines_ sanity? What is the _trigger_ for their actions? By placing our feet in their shoes, we may realise that, in the end, none of us are as sane as we claim to be."

Leland smiles at this, careful to conceal her inner applause.

"Indeed - individuals' perception of reality and logic may and _do_ differ from one another. What _I_ view may not be what _you_ view. Still, be wary. They eat novices like you for breakfast." An underlying note of condescension, but the former quickly picks it up.

"We will not be heading to the restricted cells - those are meaningless to you... or at the moment, at least. We will be going about the ground levels and the compound."

She holds back a frown.  
 _M_ _eanie_ , something hisses.  
 _Prove her wrong_ , another snaps.

Ah, well, at least she's gotten her dream job.

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End file.
